


In Her Defense

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her defense, Mr. Argent is hot. That's not been a secret since she was sixteen. Now he's just…hot<i>ter</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Her Defense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/gifts).



> raktajinos, I really enjoyed writing this! I hope you enjoy it, too.

Lydia stands in the Argents' doorway with her pink suitcase.

She's seen Allison's dad a hundred times. (So, yeah, that's hyperbolic. It's been more than a hundred times.)

Now he looks different. In her defense, Mr. Argent is hot. That's not been a secret since she was sixteen. Now he's just…hot _ter_.

"Lydia?" Chris asks, head tilted, examining Lydia like she might be insane. So, she might've been staring a little. No harm, no foul. 

"Hi, Mr. Argent," she says, smiling and enters the Argents' apartment when Chris steps aside to let her in.

"Call me Chris," he says. He crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps bunch under his plaid shirt.

"Okay." Great, now Lydia's been rendered monosyllabic.

She's saved from further awkward conversation or introspection when Allison bursts from her room, million dollar dimples in place, and sweeps Lydia up into a hug.

Lydia allows it and maybe even hugs back a little. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Before suffocation becomes an issue, Lydia steps back, Allison's hands gripping her forearms. "Oh, my God!" Allison says. "You've gotten even more beautiful."

"Please," Lydia says, hoping her blush isn't staining her cheeks. "Even if that is true, the only person that's been around to appreciate it is my laptop." She pauses. "And my boyfriend, but we're not exclusive, so clearly he's a loser."

Allison laughs, and even Chris chuckles. That's _weird_. They should stop hovering near the door and go to Allison's room or something. Anything.

"Boston seems to be treating you well," Chris chimes in, and Lydia can't help but to meet his eyes. And yeah, he really is hotter. That _thing_ goes through her again, settling warm in her tummy.

"Thanks," she says and smirks. "Wish I could say Beacon Hills has treated _you_ well," Lydia says sweetly.

Chris, much to her delight, throws his head back and laughs.

*

Dead leaves litter the sidewalks. Lydia crunches through them with her heeled boots as she and Allison walk down Main Street, heading for the town's one and only coffee shop.

After the hubbub of Boston and weekend trips down to New York City to visit her not-steady-boyfriend, Aaron, Beacon Hill seems quaint—even innocent. 

Lydia knows better. She wakes up some nights screaming, wondering if someone, somewhere is dying, or if she's just reliving her high school terrors.

From Allison's stories, Beacon Hills has been quiet in the four months since Lydia set off for MIT. Allison is still in town, taking a much deserved year off before college. Scott still works for Deacon, thinking about going to tech school to be a veterinarian and he's also honing his Alpha skills. His pack apparently consists of Allison, Isaac and Stiles, which Lydia thinks is a little depressing. For one, Stiles is down at Berkeley. And then Allison and Scott are doing the "We're totally friends!" thing, which seems to involve them ignoring each other as much as possible. At least Isaac and Allison aren't dating anymore.

They settle into the coffee shop, scarves wrapped around their necks, and talk about college and boys and things that aren't just Scott and Scott and Scott. 

"Have you thought of moving out?" Lydia asks, hoping the suggestion of independence doesn't come across wrong or seem too judge-y.

"I want to," Allison says. "But I need a job." She takes a sip of her black coffee, thin fingers wrapped around the handle of the mug. They look delicate. It's utterly deceiving. "But—Dad. He seems so lonely."

In her defense, it's hard to imagine Chris as lonely. Then she thinks about the way he makes Allison hot chocolate and the way there are no remnants of his late wife around the house, bitch though she was.

"I think he might need to date," Allison says, and Lydia can't help but to think of her black cocktail dress, brand new and perfect waiting in her closet in Boston.

Lydia swallows her latte wrong, and Allison comes around to slap her on the back.

*

Lydia is used to her studio and the privacy it affords. Privacy that allows her to walk around naked or masturbate loudly or leave her vibrator out on the coffee table.

She walks out of the bathroom after a shower, with a towel wrapped around her, moisture still clinging to her skin, as she makes a beeline for Allison's room to change. Chris and Allison are out shooting targets, because even if Beacon Hills has less crazy, Chris and Allison could very well go stir-crazy without being able to do damage.

She's walking down the hall, wringing water out of her hair with a spare hand towel, and Chris opens the front door. Lydia's too far from the bedroom to duck inside, so naturally, she stops in place. Once Chris has pulled the door closed and turned, he stops, too.

The moment extends for way too long, which means he looks at her for way too long, and so, okay, Lydia might not pull the towel up to cover her breasts more properly, but at least she doesn't let it slip down lower. Or all the way off, like in some terrible porno.

"I'm sorry, Mr—Chris," she says. She laughs, pleased it doesn't sound embarrassed. She has no reason to be embarrassed over her body, she tells herself. "I thought no one was home."

"Ah," he says and stares—keeps staring. He makes no move to go toward his bedroom.

"Well, see you later," she says, with her brightest smile and finally ducks into Allison's room.

After she closes the door behind her, she leans against it and smiles.

*

Should Lydia be upset that she's spending Thanksgiving break with her best friend and her DILF of a dad instead of her own mother?

Maybe. But it's not Lydia's fault that her mother's work thought it appropriate to send her to a conference in Barcelona during Thanksgiving weekend and that Allison had offered her apartment up.

…and did she just think _DILF_? 

While Allison and Chris are out buying the turkey, Lydia claimes she has a headache. In reality, she spends the time having enthusiastic phone sex with Aaron, who's visiting his family in Atlanta. 

After she's come twice, she thinks again why she isn't in Atlanta. Ah, yes: Aaron is a 26-year-old grad student whose parents wouldn't look fondly upon him casually dating an 18-year-old It still stings.

*

It all comes down to the fact that Lydia has no self-discipline. More than that: she doesn't see any reason to deprive herself.

Thanksgiving dinner should have been the boring, predictable part of it all.

There is turkey and cranberries, bread and dressing, mashed potatoes and peas. Thanksgiving Day festivities included just Allison, Chris and herself. Lydia is just fine with that.

Scott is with his mom and Isaac, and Stiles is predictably with his dad. There's a football game on and sweet potato pie. Everything is all Stepford wives and Betty Croker and white picket fences. As much as it could be with a pair of werewolf hunters and an arsenal of weapons hidden high and low in every room.

They're halfway through a conversation on why there's been a lack of supernatural activity in Beacon Hills lately—in other words: normal—when Allison asks, "Lydia?"

Her neck jerks. She must have being zoning out. For how long, she doesn't know.

"Hmm?" she asks, certainly not at her most eloquent. She fears she may have gotten distracted by the way Chris is licking mashed potatoes from his fork. It really should be gross.

Allison kicks at Lydia under the table, which is enough to jolt Lydia back to reality. She looks at Allison, trying for innocent—and, yeah, Allison is glaring at her. So much for that plan. 

Lydia glances over at Chris, who is squinting at her in a calculated way. Lydia knows she's caught, and she's not one to back from a fight, even if it's herself that put her there.

"Maybe Beacon Hills has been kinder to you than I thought," Lydia says, smirking. Allison coughs from behind her hand, and Chris looks at Lydia like she's a feral werewolf.

There. At least now she's not the one feeling uncomfortable. 

"That's kind of you, Lydia," Chris says, though he sounds choked. He takes a sip of his hard cider.

"Lydia, may I see you in the next room?" Allison asks—it's more a command, really. With even less subtlety, she drags Lydia into her bedroom and shuts the door behind them. Loudly.

"What. The. Hell."

Allison is really fucking frightening when she's angry. Mouth pinched and arms crossed, fingers twitching like she wants a bow in hand.

Lydia stands there, doing her best not to wring her hands or bite her lips. She learned at an early age to rein in her nervous gestures and disguise all weaknesses. It's only recently that she's learned not all vulnerabilities have to be hidden.

But this? Would have been better remained hidden. Locked-in-Egyptian-catacombs hidden.

But now that Lydia's lingering stares had got her into trouble…

"I'm sorry," Lydia says, deciding that this is one of those times where honesty is best. She hates those times.

"For what?" Allison asks. Her voice rises. "For perving on my _dad_?"

Lydia cringes. " _Lower your voice_. I'm sure Euclid heard you."

Allison's nose wrinkles in confusion.

"Never mind!" Lydia says. She pulls Allison to the bed by her wrist. "Look," she whispers. "You must know your dad is hot."

"Ew!" Allison screeches and reaches to cover her ears.

Lydia snatches them down in a pincer-like grip. She needs Allison to hear this. "All right, he's your dad. I get it." She sighs. "I'm not going to do anything about it."

" _Do_ anything?" Allison asks, throwing up her hands. "You were eye-fucking him at the dinner table. During Thanksgiving!"

Lydia sighs. Yeah. She probably was.

"Do you know how traumatizing this is?" Allison buries her face in her hands, and Lydia deflates. She loosens her grip on Allison's wrists.

"Look," she says, soft. Allison peeks out, like she's afraid Lydia is about to declare she's Chris's baby momma. "It's nothing. I think it's been too much time in the lab," she says. 

"Really?" Allison asks.

"Yes." Lydia smiles. "Besides, I have a boyfriend and a vibrator. And as hot as your dad is, I don't have any desire to inflict you with trauma." She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. "Stiles on the other hand…" 

It's really not a bad idea for a prank. Sheriffs can be hot in their own, save-the-children and cats-up-a-tree kind of way.

"Eww!" Allison shoves a pillow at her, and it's better.

*

Lydia is a rockstar at repression, so when she goes back to the dinner table, she pretends like nothing has happened. Chris stares at her a little too long—do not look at his eyes, she tells herself—but she pretends like nothing's wrong.

There's pie and the game, and it's all dreadfully boring. Lydia and Allison leave and go to Stiles's house once the Sheriff is on shift.

Stiles is exuberant and tired and loopy as ever. That is until Lydia tells him that Mr. Stilinski is looking mighty fine and that she's always had a thing for authority figures.

In her defense, the last part is kinda true.

*

When she comes out for breakfast the next morning, hungover and grouchy, she finds Chris making Allison banana pancakes and lecturing her on responsibility. His voice is calm and by the way his jaw is clenched, he's obviously angry.

Lydia wanders in to save Allison the pressure of dealing with an angry parent alone.

"Hi Chris," she says.

Chris raises an eyebrow and hands over a bottle of ibuprofen, and that shouldn't be hot, but it is.

"Thanks," Lydia says, weakly, and without being prompted, starts making scrambled eggs just to have something to do with her hands that don't involve touching Chris' five-day scruff.

*

They spend Saturday, the day before Lydia leaves, hanging out with Scott, Stiles, and Isaac. The dynamic is more than a little strange at first, stilted and awkward, but once they start bowling, Lydia starts having fun. She doesn't once think of a werewolf in London.

After they drive back to the Argents', Lydia plans to start packing up her things. Chris sits in the living room, boots up on the coffee table, with a beer in hand. It looks so domestic, and Lydia cuts herself off there because if she is anything, it's not domestic.

"Lydia, what time are we driving you to the airport in the morning?" he asks, gaze not leaving the TV. Lydia is surprised and pleased by the "we." 

She winces as she remembers. "Ass o'clock," she says. 

He chuckles, but doesn't look at her.

"Six," she translates.

She wanders into Allison's room and packs, even as hesitation and dread fills her stomach, weighing her down. She doesn't want to leave, she realizes. She doesn't want to go back to Boston right away. She wants to stay here, in Beacon Hills, and who'd have ever thought that?

Clearly, Lydia is insane. Batshit insane.

She represses. She packs and showers. She does some reading for her class on Monday.

Allison and Lydia go to bed early, wishing Chris a good night. Again, he doesn't look away from the old episode of _Law and Order_ he's engrossed in.

*

Lydia is lying in the dark next to Allison. Her phone tells her it's 1:20am, and yet she can still hear the low hum of the TV from the living room and see the changing technicolor light flashing under the door. She slips out of bed and out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

She imagines that Chris must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. _Go back to bed_ , her rational mind whispers, but ever rebellious, she doesn't listen.

Chris isn't asleep. For once, he looks up and he doesn't look away. Lydia becomes aware of the fact that she is wearing a pair of an ex-conquest's boxer shorts and a tank top that doesn't quite meet the waistband of said boxers.

Her mouth is dry as she approaches him. He's doing a good job of trying to look at her eyes, but he doesn't entirely succeed.

 _Success_.

 _No_ , Lydia tells herself as she approaches Chris, and again he's looking at her like she's a feral werewolf.

"You're a banshee," he says, voice low.

"Yes," she says, drawing closer. The carpet scratches against the bottom of her bare feet.

"Are you also a succubus?" he asks, with a half-smile, and her stomach twists. 

She's right in front of him now, blocking his view of the TV. "Not to my knowledge," she says. "I have my own charm." She grins to cover the beating of her heart. She steps closer. Their knees brush.

"Unfortunately," he says, and before she can parse out what that means, he grabs her wrist and she's in his lap. 

"This—this is a bad idea," she says.

"I know," he says against her mouth before he kisses her.

In her defense, she expects him to kiss her chastely, like an older man often does a younger girl. Chastely and gentlemanly. But it seems Chris Argent is no gentleman, because he's already licking her mouth open and he's got his fingernails digging into her nipples through her shirt.

She writhes on his lap and chokes off a moan as he bites at her throat.

"Quiet," he says, before he pulls down her tank top enough to take out her breast and sucks her nipple into the heat of his mouth. His tongue scraps against her, and she feels like she must be losing her mind.

"Oh, my God," she says, as he grabs her ass and grinds her down against him.

"If you can't be quiet," he says against her ear, "I'll stop."

And since that's about the last thing on earth she wants to happen right now, she shuts up, even as his callused long fingers slide up the inner thigh of her boxers, push her underwear aside, and circle against her opening.

His mouth is open on her neck and she grinds down on him, rotating her hips just the way that gets men off. Just because he's—well, she doesn't know exactly how old he is—not young doesn't mean she doesn't know how to get him off.

"I bet you've wanted me since I got here," she says, low, and he groans as his fingers slip up—and the good thing about experienced men is true: they understand the mighty power of the clitoris. His wet fingers slip around it.

"Faster," she urges as she rocks her hips and drags her fingers down and grabs his dick through his jeans. His mouth opens and she digs her fingers in, working him good, before she unbuttons his fly and takes him out. "You want to fuck me?" she asks, not caring that his daughter is sleeping a room away, only caring about the hot hardness in her hand, how it would feel inside of her. She tugs at his dick, hard and fast.

He spreads his fingers inside of her, flicks her clit with his thumb, and she knows she's making soft _unhs_ and the crescendo of pleasure heightens and she comes, silently, with her mouth open. Her palm tightens around Chris's dick and that's all it takes for him to be coming all over his jeans.

They both breathe rapidly, sex-damp. "Oh fuck," Lydia thinks and she sees that Chris's eyes are already clearing. She knows what a man who's just lost libidinal control looks like and the subsequent guilt. She's been the source of many.

She runs her fingers over his short graying hair and kisses him once. Chastely, gentlemanly. She puts a finger to his lips. "Save the guilt trip," she says. "I'm putting my phone number into your cell, and you will call me."

She leaves him sitting there, with his softening dick outside his jeans, mouth open, infomercials playing in the background.

She doesn't need a defense.

*

The next morning, she programs her number into Chris's phone while Allison's in the shower, and he's at the table sipping his coffee, looking like a poorly functioning zombie.

He doesn't stop her.

While Lydia is grabbing her suitcase, Allison stops her with a hand on her wrist.

"I woke up last night and you weren't in the room," Allison says, looking aggrieved. "What—did you?"

"No!" Lydia says, knowing she's a terrible liar sometimes—especially when it counts.

"Never tell me," Allison says.

"Deal," Lydia says, and when Chris takes her suitcase, he gives her a weighty stare.

"I hope I'll get to see you some during Christmas," she says. "Thank you so much for…having me."

Allison coughs and hurries out the front door.

Chris shakes his head, looking much like a man who has admitted defeat. "We need to talk about this," he says, low.

"Yep," Lydia says. "That's why you have my number."

*

In her defense, she never actually expects Chris to call.

But he does.


End file.
